on sunday it rains
and all i want to do is pick flowers, and make myself a bed
on which to sleep
i don’t want to be comfortable, stems and thorns
poking at my calves and thighs
i want to look beautiful when i suffer
and leave behind ashes in my wake
on sunday it rains
and i want it to be perfect, just for you
i want the movie credits to roll when i snap my fingers
i want champagne and chocolate fondue
i want to throw a fit and make the world
fucking cower before my rage
want to be three years old and stupid
forever incapable of acting my age
on sunday, the air is thick with smoke
from some fire off the coast
and seasons change but they’re not the same
and i can dig my childhood memories
a premature grave, i can sit
and watch, and wait
stew in my futility
on sunday, it pours, and i run barefoot down the road
‘til the soles of my feet ache
because decisions aren’t easy
because i don’t trust you anymore, i don’t know
what to say
on sunday, i want to beg you
to pull out my lungs and press them like flowers
tell me how beautiful they are
tell me that just this once i did good
i talked just like a real person, i did the dance too
and maybe someday, i’ll get so good
that you won’t even notice what i’m trying to do
on sunday my throat aches
from screaming in the mirror
as i watch the river rise so high it’s gonna flood the road
i don’t know why i’m sad
i don’t know what i’m grieving
but it’s better than nothing, i suppose